


A Black Christmas

by sallysorrell



Category: Black Books
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Gift Giving, Platonic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the thoughtful suggestions from the lovely friends of textsfromblackbooks.tumblr.com.  </p><p>Bernard, Manny, and Fran exchange gifts.  Or at least they try to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Black Christmas

Their discussion hadn’t led to anything productive, Fran decided.  They both stood in the shop next-door, books in their hands and a bagged wine bottle dangling between them.  The Christmas argument was the same every year: who should buy Bernard books, and who should buy him wine?  Nothing had been settled.  

“You’ve only got one book,” Manny said, like this would make a difference. 

Fran shrugged and said she was going to tear all the pages out anyway, so it may as well be something dull, oversized, and cheap.  

“Are you still wanting to make dinner?” she asked him, as the line crawled forward.

“Well, neither of you will,” Manny shrugged, “And I found a few really nice recipes I want to try out.”

She chuckled for a moment, then stopped entirely.

“What did you get me?”

“Nothing… I’m not telling you.” 

“Alcohol.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“ _No_."

The walk ‘home’ was quiet.

While Manny cautiously started work on their dinner, Fran flipped the shop sign over and set to work wrapping everything she was permitted to see: her own gifts to the others, Bernard’s gift to Manny, Manny’s for Bernard, and the boxes left around the desk.  Bernard, they guessed, was asleep upstairs.

“You’ll wake him,” Fran and Manny said to each other, often, as pots clattered and paper tore.

Eventually, they were right, as they heard Bernard stomping down the stairs.  

“What?   _What_?” Manny earned this, just by glancing at him.

“G'Morning,” Manny replied.  

“What?” said Bernard again, “It’s half-three.”

“Stop fighting,” Fran nudged, before they’d begun, “It’s Christmas.”

“Is it?”

Manny nodded and returned to his work, sprinkling spices into a saucepan.  Bernard rubbed his nose.

“What is that?” he whined, “That’s _awful_.”

Fran explained Manny’s culinary quest.  She had finished wrapping the gifts, and stacked them up on Bernard’s desk.

“We’ve gotta do a tree next year,” she told him, reaching to borrow his lighter.

“No,” he took it back and pocketed it.

They listened to Manny’s cooking, curtains shut, and discussed their gifts.

“I’d forgotten it was Christmas,” Bernard admitted.  He picked up one of the wrapped boxes and twirled it between his fingers, “I wondered why there weren’t any customers in.”

“Didn’t Manny tell you?”

“Probably.”

“Well you managed to throw gifts together.  That’s something.”

“What?”

He blinked at the boxes on the table, and counted them.

“What did you do?  Did you wrap the boxes that were here?”

“Yeah,” she said, “Figured you’d tell me to anyway… You’d shout out ‘woman’s work’ or some rubbish like that.”

“Did you look in them first?”

“‘Course I didn’t.”

Bernard slammed his hands on the table, more in panic than in anger.

“Those were books.”

“Well you're not supposed to tell."

“I can't; I don’t remember which ones.  But they’re for the shop.  Not you."

“Oh?  Well it wouldn’t hurt you to be generous once in awhile.  It’s Christmas.  It’s about sharing, and spending time with the people you care about.”

He nodded, applied the words only to himself, and reached for the phone.

Fran was surprised not to hear a series of ‘Ow!’s coming from the kitchen, assuming Bernard called Manny’s mobile.  Instead, she listened as he ordered enough takeaway to last them through the weekend.

Manny came out moments later, wiping his brow with a rag, and checking his watch.

“Sit down,” Bernard demanded, “And stop working, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Cooking,” he said, “I enjoy it.”

“I don’t care.  Don’t move.  Be grateful; I’ve saved your time and our stomachs.”

“He’s just ordered like thirty different curries,” Fran said, in answer to Manny’s confused pout.

“Presents,” Bernard mumbled, “Before or after dinner?”

The others shrugged, with Manny commenting on how generous Bernard suddenly seemed.  This, of course, was unacceptable, and Bernard immediately snapped, “No, now.”

Fran retrieved eggnog from the fridge, and didn’t make Bernard drink any.  Manny suggested champagne, but this was apparently being hidden away until New Years.  Bernard opted for white wine, and the unwrapping began.

“You first,” Manny said, nudging his gift toward Fran.  She grinned as she tore away the neatly-creased paper.  

“Oh, Manny,” she hummed, “They’re _gorgeous_.”  

And so they were.  She slipped off her current shoes, and put on the new red heels immediately. 

“You next, Bernard.”

“I’ve got at least a dozen copies of _Atlas Shrugged_ , Fran.  It never gets any different.”

“Have you read it, though?”

“Probably.”

“Why don’t you flip it open?”

She had to ignore his protests and cries of ‘stupid’ and ‘pointless’, and flicked back the cover.  Bernard was quiet, upon noticing the little bottle of _Teeling’s Poitin_ , nestled between green and gold shreds of paper.  

Manny then offered his, an ashtray, carefully carved in the pattern of a beehive.  It remained on the desk, exactly where Bernard had opened it, and would stay there for many years.

From Fran, Manny received both a cookbook and a gift certificate to a restaurant, with a note attached, saying: ‘just in case yours doesn’t work out the first time.’

“Manny,” Fran said, as she collected the bits of discarded paper, “Bernard has gotten us presents this year.  Isn’t that nice?”

“They aren’t for you,” he maintained, “You won’t like them.”

Regardless, Manny and Fran decided to unwrap them at the same time, tearing through the paper and then the tape on the boxes.  Each held a first-edition printing of a book: Fran’s held _David Copperfield_ and Manny’s, _Around the World in Eighty Days_.  He felt guilty even touching the covers.

“They’re for the shop,” Bernard repeated, “You don’t have to take them.  I’d like it better if you didn’t take them.”

“They’re incredible,” Fran exhaled, “but I couldn’t take either one.  Must’ve been a fortune.”

“Nice investment,” said Manny, then, more quietly, “He’s not selling them, either.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bernard, “for forgetting your gifts.”

It was quiet.

“For… for forgetting them until just now,” the shopkeeper continued, “Manny, you can have a week off, no questions asked, and Fran, there’s a bottle of _Gaja Barbaresco_ on top of the fridge, and I won’t make you share.  Much.”

“What are these other boxes, then?” Manny asked, looking for labels.

“Things,” Fran said, “Leftover from my shop.”

“What sort of things?”

“I dunno.  Just things.”

 "Why?"

"Figured it'd be fun once we'd had some wine.  Leave 'em."

They remained on the table. 

After the bottle had been retrieved and Manny began planning his vacation, the takeaway arrived. 

Fran felt bad for the boy delivering it, and gave him one of the gifts from her shop.

“It was that stupid future-lighter,” Fran explained, as they all sat down together.  Manny, after checking his watch again, had rushed to turn off the oven.  His creation was brought out too, and set among plates of rice and curry.  

“Happy Christmas, you two,” Fran said softly, “Better than spending it with family, any day.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” growled Bernard.

“Just that I’d rather spend it with people I care about.”

"No, that we're not your family?"

"Well I guess you can be."

"That can count as a gift, as well," Manny agreed. 


End file.
